


A Beast Of A Burden

by Kittendiamore, moridad



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Political Prisoner Laurent, implied past CSA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:32:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittendiamore/pseuds/Kittendiamore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moridad/pseuds/moridad
Summary: The first thing King Laurent does upon his ascension is declare war on Akielos. His only goal: to avenge his brother’s death and kill King Damianos, the Prince-killer. Instead of succeeding in this plan, he becomes a political prisoner to Akielos and realises that he has lost the loyalty of his countrymen from his single-minded desire for revenge. It is from here that he must decide whether to let the past go or to continue in his goal.





	A Beast Of A Burden

**Author's Note:**

> Title from What the Water Gave Me by Florence + the Machine. 
> 
> This baby would not exist without the tireless efforts of the Big Bang 2k18 mods (who I love) and my wonderful artist, [asuraaa](http://asuraaa.tumblr.com/) (who is so much more than I deserve). And also a thank you to [Steele](https://steelestingray.tumblr.com/), who I messaged like four days ago begging for help with my plot :').
> 
> Enjoy!!

(Art by [asuraaa](http://asuraaa.tumblr.com/))

“Your majesty,” Jord says, entering the tent.

Laurent looks up. It is dusk; the sun is finally going down and saving them from the horrendous southern heat. The closer to the border they get, the hotter it is, and Laurent does not relish the cloying feeling of sweat on his skin. He refuses to eschew his tightly laced coat. Just because they’re near barbarian territory does not mean they must become barbarians.

“Enguerran’s group was ambushed outside of Ravenel, as you predicted, but reports say the men failed to adhere to your plan,” Jord reports, a little nervously. The last time Laurent lost a territory in this war, he had thrown a candelabra. Jord had barely jumped aside in time.

Laurent frowns. “How many survived?”

“Three,” Jord replies.

“Fifteen lashes each, when they return, for failing to follow orders.” The issue with war is that Laurent cannot be everywhere at once to oversee all of his men. There is no problem with Laurent’s strategies - just with the cowards who are unable to follow them properly. Akielos is gaining more and more land, thanks to the weak-will of Laurent’s own countrymen.

There’s a heavy pause.

“What?” Laurent demands. “Speak your mind.”

Jord visibly steels himself. “The men are concerned with the amount of… casualties that come with your strategies. Perhaps, if we face Akielos head on or-”

“If they aren’t willing to die for this kingdom,” Laurent interrupts, “they should not have joined my army. We have far more casualties when they balk at my plans. Is that all?”

Another lengthy pause. “Yes, your majesty.”

“You are dismissed.”

-

He knows what the people think of him, because Arles is a court that trades in gossip and so he has always kept an ear out for the silly whispers that happen there. He is called ice-cold, ruthless, intelligent, destructive. There are a few more who whisper words like mad and unbalanced. He doesn’t necessarily disagree with any of this. After all, when Laurent finally turned twenty-one and ascended to become the King of Vere, his first official act was to send a warning to Akielos. _Prepare for war_.

-

By the third month of border fights, Laurent starts to win more attacks than he is losing. He is pleased with this fact - the start had been shaky but that had been when his knowledge of war was mostly theoretical. Now that he has some experience under his belt, things seem to be coming together more and more. They still lose a few skirmishes here and there, but over half come back successful and soon Laurent will push for more ground.

The flap of his tent is pushed back one evening and Laurent, always a light sleeper, grabs the dagger kept beside his bed and sits up.

“Calm down, princess,” Lazar says. “It’s only me.”

Laurent scowls. Lazar is a mercenary. He is the kind of low-born ruffian that sells his loyalty to the highest bidder and is remorseless about who he betrays. That is why Laurent hired him. Still, he doesn’t put down the knife.

“You’re back early,” Laurent says, rather than commenting on Lazar’s impropriety.

“I had information I thought you might want post haste.” Lazar saunters through the tent - which is large enough to befit Laurent’s status as King - and then drops down onto the bed at Laurent’s feet, which is awfully impudent. 

“This better be good,” Laurent says, “or I’ll have you whipped for your boldness.”

“Promises, promises,” Lazar mutters. “Well, I’ve never disappointed anyone in their bed quarters before, so I can assure you that you’ll like this. I’ve found out which encampment King Damianos is at.”

Slowly, Laurent smiles. The expression pulls at the scar on his face, and for the first time in a long time, he cannot bring himself to mind.

-

When Laurent is fifteen, it is not the first time he has picked up a sword, but it is the first time he has picked up a sword _with purpose_. Every day he trains until he is exhausted and aching, but he never questions whether it is worth it. He knows he has to be better than good to defeat Damianos, prince-killer.

-

Laurent sends a messenger.

Damianos sends one back. There are only two words on the page, when Laurent pries apart the wax seal. It says: _I accept_.

-

They meet on the border between Fortaine and Marlas, three days later. Damianos gets there first and so when Laurent rides in on his pure, white steed, he feels as if all of Akielos is watching. Good. He hopes they see him in his glimmering blue and gold jacket, and look down at the dirt on their excuse for armour and they recognise that they are the animals here.

Laurent takes his time dismounting; the Akielons can wait for him. Then he turns to Damianos. Despite the years that have passed since the battle of Marlas, Laurent recognises him instantly. He is a frequent guest in Laurent’s nightmares after all. 

“Damianos of Akielos,” Laurent says. He has only brought two men with him - Jord and Lazar who both stand back with the horses. Damianos has about a dozen men who also stand back, and one man at his side.

“Laurent of Vere,” Damianos replies. “From the stories, I thought your scar would be worse.”

The scar runs from the top of Laurent’s right brow to the corner of his upper lip. It is only by miracle that his right eye avoided any damage. 

The man next to Damianos says, in Akielon, “He wouldn’t sell for much in the slave quarters regardless.”

Damianos’ mouth tips up.

“My condolences on the death of your father,” Laurent says, also in Akielon. 

The smile disappears. “Let’s get this over with, then,” Damianos says. He pulls off his thick, red cloak - although why he bothered wearing it in this heat is beyond Laurent - and hands it to his right hand man. 

Laurent collects the sword he has especially prepared for this moment, from his horse. 

_Let us not waste more lives,_ Laurent’s letter to Damianos had said, _Settle this with me one on one in a duel._

They get into position across from each other, and then with the swing of a blade, the battle starts. Laurent knows he is a very capable swordsman, and with Auguste’s sword in his hand he feels even more able, as if he has been given the power of divine justice. Their blades clash in a clatter of noise. A swing, a parry, a miss. The fight falls into a pattern of strikes, so fast there is no time to think.

Laurent channels all of his energy, all of his focus into what move comes next. Laurent is good, but so is Damianos. He fights as if it comes effortlessly to him, a second nature of sorts. Laurent has to remind himself that Auguste knocked the blade from Damianos’ hands once - it is possible. All he needs is a single opening and the battle will be won.

He swings his sword at Damianos, offensive, and with a flick of his wrist, Damianos meets the blow and twists the weapon out of Laurent’s hands. It hits the hard-packed dirt in a dull thud. Laurent blinks.

Damianos does not swing again. “Pick it up,” he says, as if he has any of the grace that Auguste did. This is a mockery of his brother; ice runs cold in Laurent’s veins. 

He picks up the sword.

“That was a good warm up,” Damianos says, as if Laurent hadn’t been fighting with all of his might. “Shall we do it for real this time?” His breathing doesn’t seem altered at all. Was that truly just a light workout for the beast? 

Laurent steels himself, gets into position. This time when Damianos’ blade comes down, it takes both of Laurent’s hands on the hilt of his sword to block it. His shoes drag back from the force of it, leaving trails in the dirt. Laurent pulls back and attacks. His shoulders protest each hit, such is the raw strength that comes behind Damianos’ rebuttals. He is a creature made of steel.

Laurent’s heart is fluttering in his chest. He always knew growing up with vengeance as his primary goal, that this will likely be how he perishes. Yet all the peace he had found at the idea is suddenly gone, and Laurent feels the edge of panic in his mind. He must accomplish his goal or his whole life will be for nothing. Damianos must die.

Laurent pulls out all the tricks that make the Akielons watching curse him. He stomps on Damianos’ feet and kicks dirt at him. He makes one wild swing of the blade and - success - a line of blood wells up on Damianos’ bicep. Laurent smiles.

“A scratch,” the barbarian says. He sounds almost pleased. Then he executes a series of maneuvers so fast and so foreign that Laurent barely has time to think before his weapon is once again thudding onto the ground.

Laurent does not pause this time, but goes straight for the knife strapped to his thigh. He throws it at Damianos. Damianos tosses it aside with an effortless movement. Laurent tells himself that it’s okay if he dies now - he did it, he drew blood. He keeps stepping back, where Damianos is slowly advancing on him. “Listen,” Damianos commands him, but Laurent does not have to answer to any man.

Laurent goes for the dagger in his boot. Damianos drops his own sword and then lunges for Laurent. He throws the entirety of his weight against him and Laurent falls. His back hits the ground. All breath leaves his lungs and he struggles to gasp air back in when Damianos is pinning him to the ground.

“Listen,” Damianos repeats. “You had lost before this battle began; I have ships arriving in Marches. Vask gave us access to the Northern Steppes, my men will have taken Arles today. You sent most of your men to the border to lure me out, and I took advantage of that. You do not know war as I do. You have lost.”

“I don’t care,” Laurent spits. “I don’t care. All I want is your death and I will have it.”

Damianos frowns. “In Akielos,” he says, knees digging painfully into the flesh of Laurent’s thighs. “It is bad luck to kill the last man in his line. You are my prisoner.”

-

Once he is captured, things seem to progress rather quickly. He is checked for additional weapons and his hands are tied. Then, Laurent is taken to a tent that is empty. His hands are untied, and then retied behind his back and around the centre supporting beam of the tent. Damianos looks at him for a long moment, and then stations several guards outside the tent. 

Laurent keeps his gaze steady, unflinching.

Damianos turns to his other man, “Perhaps you should stay inside the tent,” he says.

The man nods.

Damianos looks back to Laurent. “I will be in contact with your council, to discuss the terms of your capture and subsequent surrender. If you cause any trouble, Nikandros has my permission to do whatever he deems necessary to prevent your escape.” Then he leaves.

The man, Nikandros apparently, stands silently in the tent and watches Laurent. Laurent recognises his name as that of the supposed Kyros of Delfeur. Laurent lowers himself to sit on the ground, and affects a casual air as if he is perfectly comfortable here. The ropes binding Laurent’s wrists will be possible to cut. He just needs to get the man close enough to somehow incapacitate him and steal his weapon.

“I thought you were a higher rank than guard,” Laurent says. “Or does your King just not respect your abilities?”

Nikandros is silent.

Laurent repeats himself in Akielon. Again, the Kyros says nothing.

“You must love him,” Laurent tries a speculative tone. “Your King. You are both about the same age, aren’t you? I’m sure you look up to him. Do you try to emulate him?”

Silence. That’s okay. Laurent has time, and tactics aplenty.

“Your king took me on the field,” Laurent says. He spreads his legs suggestively. “Perhaps you would like to conquer me in another way?”

He doesn’t even look a little tempted, which is insulting. Laurent knows he has an impressive figure, even if his scar is ugly.

“Or I could just moan, and make noises, and the guards outside will all think you’re fucking me anyway. Maybe one of them will come in for a turn and I can finally get some entertainment.”

“They won’t,” Nikandros says. 

Finally, some reciprocation! “I’m fairly sure I could get at least one of them in here.”

“I meant,” Nikandros tells him, “they won’t think I’m fucking you no matter what noises you make.”

“Oh,” Laurent looks pointedly at the man’s crotch. “Impotent?”

“Discerning.”

“You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“I prefer my slaves unmarked.” He gestures to his own face.

The comparison to a slave galls him. “Of course. What need have you for foreigners, when you can just rape your own people.”

Nikandros sighs. 

-

Laurent fails to get a rise out of his guard and after an hour or so they fall into silence. It won’t be long now.

Damianos returns, pushing his way into the tent. There’s a sheen of sweat to his skin that gives it an odd glistening quality. He squints at Laurent. “I have spoken to the men of your council that I could reach, and some of your commanders.”

“Good for you,” Laurent says, coolly. “You look tired, you should sit down.”

Nikandros is frowning at his king. He is perceptive.

Damianos shakes his head. “They did not want you back.”

“I am their King.”

“Apparently you have made many claims of an unwillingness to negotiate with Akielos. They fear that by bargaining for your return, you will punish them,” Damianos says. “Your council are making the decisions for now, like they did before you inherited. Your men have stood down.”

“I am their King,” Laurent repeats.

“You are not a very good king,” Damianos replies, simply. He clears his throat.

“Good Kings rarely survive,” Laurent says. 

Damianos steadies himself with a hand on Nikandros’ shoulder.

“Damen?” Nikandros sounds concerned. He should be. He puts a hand to Damianos’ sweaty brow and his frown deepens. “How do you feel?”

“I am fine,” Damianos says, stubbornly.

Laurent smiles.

Nikandros looks to him and makes the connection easily. “What was on your blade?” he demands.

“Poison?” Damianos says, slow on the uptake. He looks to the dried blood on his bicep.

Nikandros, for the first time Laurent has seen, looks truly ruffled. He stalks over to Laurent, fists a hand in his hair and drags him into a standing position, heedless of his bound hands hindering him. A knife is pressed to Laurent’s throat.

“What was on your blade?” He demands again.

Laurent laughs. He looks directly at Damianos, who is visibly paler. “All I want,” Laurent says, “is your death.”

“If he dies,” Nikandros growls, “I will kill you slowly.”

“Nikandros!” Damianos interrupts. “He won’t tell you. Go ask the spy, and ask him if there is anyone else who might know.”

The hand in Laurent’s hair tightens painfully, an unsettlingly familiar feeling, and then he is released. Nikandros dashes out of the tent.

“It is not typically Veretian,” Damianos says to Laurent, as he slowly sits on the ground before him, “to poison your sword, or I would have died when I fought Prince Auguste.”

“Keep his name out of your mouth, barbarian,” Laurent hisses.

“This is all about him, then?” Damianos asks. He sounds calm. Of course he does, even he must know the poison will go to his heart quicker the more agitated he gets. “You have discarded your Kingdom and your honour for a years old grudge against me for killing him in fair combat.”

“It was not fair!”

“You sound like a child. Have you not grown up yet?” Damianos scolds him. “What did you think you were doing when you declared war on Akielos? You have condemned hundreds of men -hundreds of husbands, fathers, _brothers_ \- to their deaths. They will face the same pain you are so angry at me for. People die in war. I understand that, as I’m sure your brother did.”

“Do not speak of him,” Laurent snaps. “If I am honourless, it is because you left me with no reason not to be.”

“I did not put a sword in your hand and tell you to poison it.”

Laurent laughs, suddenly. He slides down the pole to be seated again, across from Damianos. “You’re going to die,” Laurent tells him. “And nothing gives me greater delight.”

Nikandros ducks back into the tent. There is a woman with him who hands Damianos a flask and directs him to drink out of it, and then she sets upon cleaning his wound.

“The spy has gone to fetch the Veretian royal physician. He should be back within the hour. How are you feeling?” Nikandros crouches in front of his King, concerned.

“Hot,” Damianos replies. “Dizzy. Like I’ve been poisoned.”

“It may not have been a fatal dose,” the woman tending to his arm says. “The wound is small.”

Damianos smiles brightly at her. He looks a little delirious. 

“He’s going to die,” Laurent repeats, sounding a lot more confident than he feels. He isn’t a poison master, but he had coated the sword liberally and if Damianos is being affected so much then surely he won’t overcome it. Although - Laurent looks dubiously at his glistening muscles - perhaps beasts need a higher dose.

Everyone ignores Laurent anyway. They are all too concerned with the King dying on the ground during what should be a time of victory for them. Damianos seems stuck in a state of stagnation - he isn’t visibly getting better or worse. It reminds Laurent of the lords in court who sometimes forget themselves and drink to the point of sickness. How pitiful.

Eventually, the tent flaps are pushed aside once again, and in enters -- Lazar, leading Paschal.

“The physician says he’ll help,” Lazar says, gesturing Paschal further in the tent. 

“I have an idea of what the King used,” Paschal says, a little nervously. He is the one who Laurent went to, when he wanted to know of a poison that a blade could be tipped with.

Laurent scowls. “Paschal,” he says. “Do not disobey me.”

Paschal looks to him, startled, as if he hadn’t even noticed Laurent in the room. It is grating. “Your majesty,” Paschal says. “It cannot be helped. It is a physician’s duty to help whoever they can, regardless of whether they want it.”

Paschal thinks he’s saving Laurent’s life. Laurent closes his eyes. He remembers lying in Paschal’s private infirmary, when he was barely fourteen and full of shame and indignation and confusion at what was happening to him. Paschal had never openly judged him, but sometimes he would turn tired eyes on Laurent and tell him, “the greatest show of strength, is to survive through adversity. It is easy to die, men do it every day. But you, your highness, you must live.”

It has used to feel like something of a comfort to Laurent, but now he realises that Paschal is going to put Laurent’s survival above his wishes.

“The antidote,” Paschal says, holding out a bottle. “It is administered both topically and orally, for the quickest results.”

“No,” Laurent says.

“If this is a ruse,” Nikandros says, taking the bottle. “It will be the last thing you do.”

It is not a ruse. After barely quarter of an hour, Damianos manages to sit up properly. He stops sweating and a slave is sent in to gently wipe the sweat from his forehead.

Laurent looks across the tent at where Paschal and Lazar stand. The doctor and the spy.

“You have betrayed me,” Laurent says, to both of them.

“I made no promises,” Lazar replies easily. “You hired me in the first place because you liked that I was willing to do dirty things. Akielos offered me more than you could.”

“I am a King.”

“Their skirts are very short,” Lazar shrugs. Laurent is going to murder him.

Damianos leaves for his own tent, and takes the slave, his doctor woman, and Nikandros with him. Paschal and Lazar are escorted out to who knows where, and Laurent is given a new in-tent guard. This man is even quieter than Nikandros. He doesn’t say a word, no matter how much Laurent goads him.

Laurent closes his eyes. He has always known that he could never match up to Damianos’ sword fighting abilities. A scratch, he had thought, a scratch would be possible. It is his own fault for not considering that Paschal would betray him like this. He had thought he would be dead before Damianos would even notice that he had been poisoned, and thus unable to be used as leverage.

-

From what little information that Laurent is given, the war is over. Damianos was not joking about having men invade Arles - led by his bastard brother, Kastor - and so Laurent has lost both his revenge and his Kingdom. Laurent is kept as a political prisoner and the journey to Ios is slow and unbearable. He is kept under guard by a forever changing array of men who have all clearly been instructed to ignore him. It is impossible to convince a loyal man to betray his king in one day, and the roster prevents Laurent from getting more than one day with each of them. 

Damianos only visits him once during these weeks, alongside Nikandros who seems to be travelling to Ios with them. Nikandros offers to kill Laurent in his King’s stead. Damianos just gives Laurent a long look and then responds, “No. A good king does not ask of his men what he would not do himself”. He thinks he is wise and noble, but Laurent knows better.

Finally, they make it to the capital, which marks the end of Laurent having to travel bound torturously in a wagon, and he is quickly whisked away to a room in a tower of the palace. Laurent counts as he is forced up the stairs. He is six stories high.

The room is isolated, the singular window barred, and it contains nothing but a bed and a simple privacy screen with a chamber pot behind it. He is locked in. It is a better accommodation than a typical jail cell - in respect to Laurent’s position - but it is all garishly plain. 

His daily schedule becomes this: he is brought breakfast in the mornings by a slave - this is the only time a guard also comes into the quarters, presumably to protect the slave - and then he is left alone until lunch, when a slave appears again to clean up for him and bring more food. Next is dinner, which comes with a basin of water for Laurent to wash with. This is it. Laurent has three moments of contact a day - with a slave and a guard who do not speak to him. The rest of the time he is left on his own, with nothing to entertain him but his own mind.

They must have recovered Laurent’s chest of items from his tent, as each day he is given his own clothing to wear. It is only ever pants and an undershirt, which means someone has probably discovered his penchant for sewing small blades and needles into his jackets. 

Laurent has always been something of a solitary creature - he typically works best when given time alone with his thoughts - but that is only when the solitude is by choice and when he has an activity to fill the time with. There are only so many things he can do in a room by himself before he starts to feel as if he is truly going mad. 

After the third week, he requests that the guard tell King Damianos that Laurent wishes to speak with him. The guard refuses. The slave is too meek to be given any such demands. The next day he lowers his standards to asking for a book, or paper, or anything really that can stop him from being alone like this. When he had first been captured he had expected to perhaps be beaten or raped, and had been steeling himself against such things. This loneliness he had not prepared for, and it is almost bad enough to make him wish for one of the alternatives.

There are activities he can do to fill the time. He fills his mornings with simple physical exercises and his evenings with forcing himself to recall information and testing his memory. He tries to talk to the guards through the bars of his door but very few of them ever respond.

He counts the days with a kind of futile despair.

After a month and a half passes with little change, he is almost resigned to his situation. He assumes Damianos intends to keep him like this until he dies, in order to prevent a curse or whatever it is that he fears will happen if he kills Laurent outright.

A slave comes in with his breakfast and the day’s clothes. His head is down in typical slave submission, and his chin length red hair falls in a silky curtain. The slaves shoulders are paler than even Laurent’s and freckled. The slave sets the tray before Laurent and looks up. His eyes are green.

He is Berenger’s pet, Laurent recognises him, Ancel. He looks at Laurent deliberately. His throat and wrists are cuffed with gold, and yet his expression is purely that of a pet.

“Don’t look up,” the guard says, sounding almost fond. 

“Sorry!” Ancel replies in simperingly quiet Akielon. He drops his head. “This slave begs forgiveness.” His accent is horrendous, but the words must be inspiring because the guard looks forgiving.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Just get on with it.”

Ancel stands up, a graceful movement and then raises his hands to the laces at Laurent’s wrist. He slowly starts to undo them. “Master Adrastus,” Ancel says to guard softly, “told me to make song while I serve.”

“To sing,” the guard corrects him. 

Ancel starts to sing. Laurent recognises the melody - it is a Veretian lullaby sung to children, nothing nearly as sophisticated as what a slave would typically sing. But only the melody is the same - the words that Ancel sings are entirely his own.

“My master has found you allies in the empress,” Ancel croons, as he pulls off Laurent’s shirt. Laurent usually does not let the slaves undo his pants as well, but he doesn’t stop Ancel. “Tonight I will distract the guard, you must take the opportunity.” 

“That was an ugly song,” the guard says, once Laurent is dressed again.

“Akielos songs is more nice,” Ancel agrees, as they leave together.

-

There is something dangerous about hope. He wants this plan to be real, to work, but he does not know the specifics and there will be nothing he can do to fix it until the time comes. For now, he makes sure to act normally. He does his morning exercises, although he cannot help the extra enthusiasm in each step. He has lunch. He spends the afternoon trying to think of any allies he will be able to call upon when he gets out. He doesn’t know what Berenger has promised Vask, but he can wager it is something to do with the horses the man breeds. Horses are practically the currency in Vask. He thinks he can get to Patras from there. He cannot trust the Empress when, according to Damianos, she gave the Akielons access to the Steppes. Torveld is his best bet. Laurent will probably have to marry him, but it can’t be helped. Now that he has a chance at surviving beyond these empty walls, he will do anything he can to secure it. 

Ancel returns again that evening with the same guard. He sets down Laurent’s tray. Laurent looks at the floor when Ancel rises, a thin silver chain left at his feet. Ancel turns demurely to the guard. “This slave has been instructed to thank you for your protection,” Ancel says.

“What?” The guard blinks.

Ancels slides smoothly to his knees and pushes up the guard’s chiton. The guard appears to forget that Laurent is in the room very quickly. Laurent bends down slowly and picks up the chain. It is sturdy.

The guard makes a noise. His back is to Laurent, but it is clear that his eyes are closed, his head tipped back. Ancel must be quite talented to make the man forget his duty so quickly. Laurent steps quietly behind the man, then swiftly wraps the chain around his neck and tightens it. Ancel immediately jumps back as the man starts to fight it. He pushes back against Laurent, tries to grab at his head and his hands, but Laurent has the element of surprise and he is strong. It does not take long for the guard to slump to the ground.

Ancel is already moving. He tosses the sheet from Laurent’s bed to Laurent. “Put that on,” he says, “Like a chiton.”

He helps Laurent pin it - with a golden pin that he produces, hidden on his own chiton. The pin is a lion’s head, the symbol of King Damianos. Ancel is unclasping his cuffs and collar, swiftly handing them to Laurent. “Quickly,” he urges.

Laurent puts them on.

“No one will question a slave of the King,” Ancel says. “Keep your head down, follow me.”

They take the keys from the guard’s belt and unlock the door, and thus begins a winding journey through corridors. Ancel must be taking him through the slave hallways, as they are small and confusing paths, hard to find. 

Eventually they make it to the end of the hallway, and Ancel stops. “This lets out into the courtyard, it’s the closest I can get you to the stables. There’s a bag hidden in the last stable, it has a change of clothes and some supplies for you. There is a map. Sell the gold, get to Kesus. There is a cloth merchant who will meet you, and smuggle you to Patras, from there you only have to get to Skarva, that’s where Berenger is.”

“What are you going to do?” Not that Laurent really cares, except Berenger may be less inclined to help if Laurent allows his pet to get hurt.

Ancel scoffs. “I’ll make my own way there. It’s more dangerous travelling with you than without.”

Laurent nods, and with no more of a goodbye, he ducks out of the hallway and into the courtyard. 

The open night air is almost overwhelming, it has been so long since Laurent has been outside, he almost wants to stop and admire the stars. The courtyard is full of people, despite that it must be past dinner time. Children run across the ground, soldiers deal with horses. People are talking and drinking and laughing. A few slaves are dotted around, making their way unnoticed. This is a very good disguise.

Head down, Laurent makes his way across the courtyard. He can see the Kyros, Nikandros, talking to another soldier close by. He turns his head. A little girl, she looks barely eight, runs in front of him. There is a horse not far from them that is pulling against it’s reins. The horse is agitated.

Laurent knows how to recognise danger from a mile away. He knows what he’s looking at as the horse rears, as it’s owner loses control. The little girl is too close, and she hasn’t even noticed that she is about to be trampled. Laurent is a survivor. Everyone in Vere knows his reputation for being ice-cold, heartless. He puts himself and his own needs first. He is a bad King. He convinced his people to go to a war that he knew they would lose just so he could have a chance to kill a man. He is a bad person. He knows it. His people know it. His uncle knew it.

He cannot let a child die. Laurent steps forward, grabs the horse’s reins and pulls it away from the girl - who has just noticed it and she screams. People are turning toward them. Another man jumps in and pulls the girl away. A woman steps over and helps Laurent settle the horse. The beast gentles. 

Laurent knows what happens next. Nikandros has seen him and recognised him. He is clearly not a slave. He presses his face against the horse’s neck for just a moment, a short moment of self indulgence, before he is being pulled back by a guard. Laurent looks up at the sky, at the stars, as he is dragged inside.

-

Nikandros sighs heavily when they get back to Laurent’s private prison and they find the unconscious guard. “Well, at least you didn’t kill him,” he says, checking the man’s pulse. 

The guard is dragged out, and Laurent is locked back in. 

“Stay here,” Laurent can hear Nikandros tell one of the guards outside. “Don’t go in the room. I’ll inform Damianos-Exalted.”

Laurent looks at the room. It might as well be the only room in existence, especially now that Laurent has squandered his only chance for escape. He sits on the bed. At least it is comfortable. 

Not long later, the door is opening again and in comes Damianos, looking self important. He does a double take when he sees Laurent.

“I warned you he was disguised as a slave,” Nikandros says, impatiently.

“Leave us,” Damianos replies, and then the door is closed and they are alone together in the room.

Laurent wants to say something cutting, but he also thinks he might be able to bargain here. He saved a child’s life - that is worth something at least, surely.

Damianos looks at him. “Everyone has advised me not to speak with you,” he says. “I have heard many stories about you. They tell me that you are a treacherous snake; you have no values or respect. You murdered your own uncle and disfigured your own face. You sent your men into a losing war.”

“Well,” Laurent says. “This chat has been nice, but I’m afraid my dinner is getting cold.” It’s definitely cold by now, given that he received it before his escape attempt.

“You could have escaped,” Damianos says. “With the gold on your wrists, I’m sure you could have escaped. Instead, you saved a child. I cannot think you are entirely what they say you are when it is your instinct to save a life before your own.” 

Laurent stays silent. What is there to say? He is still to be locked up in this box.

Damianos sighs. “I do not want to keep you in this room forever,” he says. “When the Kingdoms are more settled, I will find you a house somewhere that you can live in. You are too young to be confined like this. There will always be people watching you, but you will have more freedom than you do now. Perhaps you will even find peace.”

“You have put a bastard on the throne of Vere,” Laurent says. “The Kingdom will not settle in my lifetime. It would be kinder of you to kill me, than to make false promises like this.”

“I will come see you again tomorrow,” Damianos says. “I’ll send to get you more food in the meantime.” 

He leaves.

-

The next day he comes back in the morning while Laurent is stretching. Laurent doesn’t acknowledge him, he just continues.

“The guards tell me you’ve requested books before,” Damianos says. “I have the morning free, and I thought perhaps we could go to the library and you could find some.”

Laurent is not so stupid that he will deny the chance to see more of the layout of the palace, so he agrees. They walk through the palace, two guards behind them, and Damianos leads Laurent to a wide, open room.

The libraries in Arles are stuffy, stocked full with as many shelves and books as can possibly fit. It’s always felt like a comfort to Laurent, if not somewhat claustrophobic. The palace library in Ios is massive. The wall are lined with shelves, and the centre of the room is reserved for low couches. It looks like a place of rest more than a place for scholars. It is beautiful. Laurent looks up at the shelves, the ladders and the high ceilings. He knows he should not be letting himself be swayed by books when his brother’s killer is in the room, but there is nothing he can do about Damianos in this moment, and plenty that he can do with these books. 

He steps towards the shelves as if in a trance. They spend an indeterminable amount of time in the library. Damianos reads on one of the lounges, while Laurent goes through picking up books and exchanging them for others, unable to decide on just one.

“Take a few,” Damianos says, absently turning a page. “Keep them in your room.”

“I would take all of them if I could,” Laurent replies, because he will not thank his captor.

Damianos laughs, a short sound. “I should have locked you in here, instead.”

Laurents sets about, collecting a small pile of books that he’s interested in. They’re all in Akielon, so it’ll take him a little longer and a lot of frustration to read, but he’ll take it. Just the notion that he can alleviate the loneliness of his prison a little is wondrous.

A man comes in at some point, bows to Damianos and hands him a letter. Laurent pretends not to pay attention, as Damianos reads it.

Damianos finishes the letter, reads it again, and then hands it back to the man. “Arrange to have the items in this letter sent to Kastor, as he requests.”

The man leaves.

The room is silent again. Laurent turns a page, and then realises he has read nothing in the past minute. He puts the book down. “Why did you give Vere to your brother, instead of taking it for yourself?”

Damianos, surprisingly, actually replies. “I have no interest in Vere; Kastor was raised with the knowledge on how to rule a kingdom. He was unhappy in Akielos, so I offered him the men he would need to conquer your capital when you sent us the message for war.”

“You have given him enough power to crush you with,” Laurent says.

“I suppose that is true,” Damianos says. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered.

“Why?” Laurent asks again.

“He is my brother,” Damianos says, simply. Then he seems to hear himself, and he looks to Laurent with pitying eyes. 

“You would give him the means to destroy you,” Laurent says, slowly. “But you judge me for being willing to do whatever it takes for my own brother.”

“That was war,” Damianos frowns.

“It was not our war,” Laurent hisses, standing up. “It was yours. My mother was barely in her grave and you chose to attack us. You took our land. You killed my father. You murdered my brother. You’re the reason for everything awful that has ever happened in my life. You left me alone with--” Laurent turns away. He wants to throw something, but there are no candlesticks within reach. He is breathing heavily. He did not come here to debate with Damianos on how he has been wronged. He turns for the door, the guards stop him.

“What are you doing?” Laurent demands. “I am out of my cell. Take me back.”

-

He feels as if he is burning out of his own skin, he is so angry. Laurent wants to destroy something, or hit someone. Usually when he got like this in Arles, there was a guard he could convince to duel with him so that he could have a physical outlet for his rage. Right now, in this sparse room, there is nothing unless he wants to kick a wall. 

Laurent paces, furiously. How dare he? The Akielon beast may act civilised, but he is a nothing more than an animal dressed in the clothing of man. He murdered Laurent’s brother, and now refuses to take any blame for the act. Yes, Laurent knows what war is, he knows how men die. But if someone came to him with a challenge for the death of their family, Laurent would accept the duel. Every death on his hands Laurent claims responsibility for. Damianos hides behind excuses. 

Damianos ruins Laurent’s life, refuses to take responsibility for his actions, and then as a final insult, he locks Laurent in this fucking tower instead of killing him on the battlefield. Laurent should be with Auguste right now, in whatever afterlife exists for men who died on the field. It is unconscionable of Damianos to do this. To make Laurent bear weeks of loneliness in a near-empty room, and then to offer him a moment’s consideration. Laurent hates himself for the moment of gratefulness he had felt in the library for his captor. He is a king; he shouldn’t need permission to go into a library. He shouldn’t have to face the indignity of captivity. He should--

_Oh_. Laurent sits down on the cold tiles suddenly. He left the books behind. He has gained nothing but anger at his little excursion with the barbarian. He closes his eyes. Laurent should have played it smarter. He can’t keep living like this -- alone in a box. He should have endeared himself to Damianos, the man seems dim-witted enough to fall for a fake friendship. If he’d taken this opportunity to get close with the King, Laurent could have bided his time until a chance to strike arose. Damianos is the kind of man who gives a kingdom to his brother despite the very obvious risks. If Laurent could have gotten his regard, he could have found a moment to fulfill his revenge plan. 

It is too late now. Laurent has surely ruined all of that by lashing out. Uncle always said that he was too impulsive. Too easy to control with emotion. Laurent sighs. 

-

Damianos returns that evening, a stack of books in his hands. He stands in the doorway of Laurent’s prison for a long moment, before he steps in. Laurent had not expected him to return.

“You didn’t take the books with you,” he says finally, setting the pile down on Laurent’s bed. Laurent watches him from where he is standing at the window.

“Yes,” Laurent says. He will not thank his captor.

Damianos looks uncomfortable. He gazes around the room. “I will not apologise for Marlas,” Damianos says. “I did what I had to do for my father and kingdom; I won’t regret that. I am sorry that you had to face such hardship at a young age.”

Laurent says nothing. He keeps telling himself to play nice, perhaps not all is lost yet, but it is hard to bring himself to say something kind when Damianos is speaking of Laurent’s life like this.

Damianos sighs. “I am at a loss of what to do with you,” he admits. “You were right when you said that things would not settle for quite some time. I do not wish to make you waste away alone in here for years, but you are too smart and too powerful to be let out. I do not wish to kill you, but you are a great risk to keep alive. I don’t know what my options are, here.”

“I never intended to live this long,” Laurent tells him after a moment has passed. “I do not know what to do either.”

He pretends that the sad look Damianos gives him isn’t galling. 

“Perhaps,” Damianos says, quietly, “you would like to attend dinner with the court? I cannot promise anyone will be very kind to you, but it may be better than eating here alone.”

Laurent agrees.

-

Dinner is awkward. No one at the table seems comfortable enough to try to speak with him -- except for Damianos -- but that is fine. Laurent is used to being in the company of men that he does not enjoy. He takes the opportunity to watch, and learn. 

There are three important things that Laurent takes note of: Damianos appears to be well-liked and respected by all his men, the Kyros Nikandros is returning to Delfeur in the morning; and every single slave that bears the King’s pin is a light skinned, fair-haired beauty. 

Laurent thinks of how he looks. He thinks of how the only time his uncle was ever vulnerable was when he was asleep in bed and how Laurent was too late to realise that he could have seized a moment like that to kill him. Akielons are known for their prudish ways when it comes to sex. If Laurent could seduce him, then he could be alone in a room with a vulnerable Damianos. He could murder him. Auguste would have his revenge. 

“Is the food very different in Vere?” Damianos asks, comfortable even at the table with the man who poisoned him just a couple of months ago.

Laurent pops an olive in his mouth. The taste is awful -- they would never serve such a thing in Arles -- but he keeps his expression neutral. “Things are a lot sweeter in Vere,” he says.

-  
It is easy to fall into a new kind of schedule after that. He typically spends his mornings the same -- eating, dressing, exercising -- and then in the evenings he reads. Translating the books from Akielon is tedious work, but it keeps his mind active. Damianos collects him every night for dinner in the hall, sometimes there are many people and sometimes only a few join them, but it is the only time Laurent is guaranteed reprieve from the four solid walls of his prison.

And then sometimes, rarely and never more than once a week, Damianos will appear entirely unexpected and invite Laurent to the library, or to lunch, or a walk around the gardens. Laurent makes sure his outward attitude towards Damianos changes slowly, so as not to evoke suspicion. 

The gestures Damianos makes are small but noticeable. He sees the pile of books next to Laurent’s bed and has him brought a small table; cakes and other desserts appear more frequently at dinner.

-

The latest soldier, in his forever revolving cycle of guards, doesn’t seem to like Laurent very much. Which shouldn’t be a notable fact -- no one really likes Laurent -- except that when Laurent tries to leave his little cell, the man blocks the threshold.

The guard is taller than Laurent by a few inches, and almost as broad as the doorway itself. Whatever they feed the soldiers of Akielos, it is potent. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” He has the look of a man spoiling for a fight.

It is galling to have to answer to some half-brained, over-muscled barbarian guard, but Laurent has not been through all that he has just to get murdered for talking back. He keeps his composure. “The library,” Laurent replies cooly. “I am sure your captain has informed you that Damianos-Exalted is fine with me going there.”

“My father was killed in your war,” the guard says.

Ah, so it’s personal. “What’s your point?” Laurent replies, “Mine died in one of yours.”

“My cousin was the one you attacked in your little escape attempt. Do you know what happens to a man who goes without air for that long?”

Akielos is probably full of so much inbreeding that Laurent could throw a stone and it would hit one of this man’s relatives. That’s hardly his fault. Still, Laurent remembers his claim that he would face any man that felt truly victimised by his actions. 

“Very well,” Laurent says. “Let’s go to the practice grounds then. We can duel.”

“Duelling is for men with honour,” the guard replies. Then he backhands Laurent across the face.

It’s a powerful blow. Laurent catches himself on the door frame. He is smart enough to know that the soldier is not planning to stop at one hit. Laurent is an enemy to the country -- the guard probably doesn’t even fear repercussions. Laurent steps back into his room, the man advances on him. It doesn’t take a master strategist to know that this is bad -- Laurent has no weapon or armour, and he’s disadvantaged by his height and weight and the fact that he’s already a little dizzy just from one hit. 

“Perhaps we can settle this another way,” Laurent tries. He can’t get killed here while Damianos is still alive and well. He doesn’t know what other way he can suggest though; this man seems hardly inclined to be seduced.

The guard launches at him again, a punch this time, and Laurent manages to dodge the hit. Laurent continues to back up. He takes stock of the room. He is a prisoner, he hardly has any ornaments to throw at the man, unless he tosses a book.

Laurent sighs. At least the guard hasn’t thought to draw his sword. Laurent changes his stance, and he swings.

There’s something about hand-to-hand combat that is equally as disturbing as it is satisfying. There is nothing quite like causing the crunch of bone and cartilage to an attacker. Perhaps the guard was right when he said Laurent had no honour, because doesn’t even pretend to fight fairly. He knees the man in his groin, headbutts him until his nose is pouring blood. He still has to take many hits of his own. He is self aware enough to know he won’t actually win this fight, and so the very moment that Laurent manages to get his attacker distracted -- with a strike to his mess of a nose -- Laurent runs.

It may not be the most noble of strategies, but he refuses to die for something as foolish as pride. He is injured, but he’s also smaller than his attacker, faster. He can hear the barbarian chasing him, but Laurent is fairly certain that he can out-run him. 

Laurent turns a corner and runs straight into the very surprised arms of a guard.

“Take me to Damianos,” Laurent says, quickly. “Or your captain.” He has to work fast in case this new guard decides to help out his buddy when he catches up.

“You’re bleeding,” the guard says, stupidly.

“I fell,” Laurent replies, “Take me to Damianos, I must see him immediately.”

Even as he says it, Laurent knows it’s too late. His attacker finds them.

“Pallas,” the brute says warily, to the new guard.

Pallas is frowning. “We were ordered not to hurt the Veretian.”

“I was defending myself,” the man replies. “You know what he did to Telamon.”

“I do,” Pallas replies, brow furrowed. “We should take him to Damianos-Exalted to decide what to do.”

“We don’t need to bother the King with something so small. I will take the prisoner back to his room.”

“No,” Laurent says.

“No,” Pallas agrees. “The Exalted is to be informed of all issues regarding the Veretian.”

“You would defend the prisoner?” Disbelief.

“That is my order,” Pallas says. 

There’s a long moment of tension, then the guard waves a hand dismissively. “Fine,” he says. “It is no issue. You look after the prisoner; I’m going to wash my face.” He stalks off.

The man’s nose is never going to sit straight again, Laurent thinks, with some satisfaction.

Pallas turns to look at Laurent. “Do you need a physician before I take you to the King?”

Laurent raises a hand to his cheekbone a little hesitantly. It stings, but it doesn’t feel like anything too serious. “No,” Laurent replies. “Perhaps I should go back to my quarters and wash my own face.”

Pallas nods and walks Laurent back. He watches Laurent wash his face and pat it down with a cloth. 

“Did you truly attack Zosimos?” 

Laurent shrugs. “If I did,” he replies, “then he did not seem very concerned to leave you with me.”

Pallas looks truly troubled by this. “Damianos-Exalted will be displeased.”

“You don’t have to tell him,” Laurent replies. “I doubt Zosimos will, and I can just say that I’m clumsy.”

Pallas’ frown deepens. “I will tell him,” he says.

-

Pallas is true with his word. Once the next guard appears to relieve him of his duties, Pallas disappears and a few moments later returns to tell Laurent he has been summoned by the King. Zosimos is already there when Laurent arrives in the audience chambers, and Damianos is frowning at him from the throne he’s sitting on.

Damianos’ gaze falters when he realises Laurent has appeared. He stands and walks to meet Laurent in the middle. Damianos raises a hand, as if to touch Laurent’s cut cheekbone but he leaves it hovering, skin not to touch. His brow is furrowed.

Laurent looks at him steadily. “I’ve had worse,” he says.

Damianos goes back to his guard. 

For Zosimos, lying about his actions apparently isn’t something he can bear to do to his King. “He attacked Telamon,” the guard says.

Damianos frowns. “Telamon shouldn’t have left himself vulnerable to be attacked, even he admits that he was at fault in the situation.”

Zosimos is unwilling to hear it, “My father--”

Damianos puts a hand on his shoulder. “Your father is a great loss to us all,” he says. “But it was war. Yes, our men died. And before that we killed the King and Crown Prince of Vere. And before that they stole Delpha from us, and before that…” Damianos shakes his head. “If we run this Kingdom on old grudges then we will never have time to rest or improve or look after our people.”

Laurent had expected anger or lashing out, but Damianos is looking at his man with a strict kind of sympathy. Oddly, it doesn’t make him appear weak.

Damianos is not finished. “I do not need men on my guard who will ignore my orders to fulfil their own desires.” This is enough to make Zosimos look up at his king. He looks as if he is being dealt a blow worse than death. “You will go to Delpha, to serve as a soldier in Kyros Nikandros’ army. He will hold you to a very high standard and report back to me if you fail to meet it.”

It doesn’t take much more than that before Zosimos is leaving, face almost as bruised as his pride. 

Then it is just them. Damianos is looking at Laurent again, and Laurent is watching him back. 

“Would you like a physician to help with the bruising?” Damianos asks gently.

A thought comes upon Laurent, and it is as viscerally horrifying as it is true. Damianos who is strong but centered, bold but sympathetic. He is skilled in physical pursuits, and yet also shows a kind of emotional awareness that seems to come naturally to him. He is the kind of King that Auguste would have been.

-

Laurent finds comfort in control. He likes having command of himself; he chooses what he eats and how much he trains, and what he reads. Something as simple as having a schedule is enough to keep him sane. He likes control. He relishes it.

He cannot control his dreams.

This has always been a failing, especially when he was younger and nightmares occurred more often than not. But worse than that even, is when it’s not a nightmare.

Laurent dreams of skin. He dreams of bronze fingertips trailing gentle lines down his face, along his neck. He dreams of a less self-conscious version of himself who has forgotten grudges and lives only in the dimpled smile and soft brushes of touch that come from this dream version of Damianos. 

Perhaps he could forgive his subconscious mind for this deception -- wipe it away as confusion over his plan to seduce Damianos -- if it weren’t for the moments when he transitions into the waking world, and his mind wishes it could go back to sleep.

-  
“You seem tense,” Laurent says.

Damianos has been sitting in the gardens, staring frustratedly into the distant for quite some time. It was perhaps rather nice of him to invite Laurent to spend some time outside, despite his obvious mood.

Damianos sighs. “I apologise. I’m not very good company.”

“You’re my only company nowadays,” Laurent replies, trailing his fingers along some leaves. “I can hardly complain.” It’s only now that his ability to go outside is limited that he has started to appreciate things like nature. The flowers in Akielos are lovely. In Vere, the gardens are planned out meticulously, but here it seems that they just let the things that want to flourish do so wherever they please. 

“The guards aren’t talking to you?”

Since his little attack, the change in the guards has been obvious. Now instead of a new guard every day, he has a few repeating faces that will even speak with him every now and then. It is a foolish choice on Damianos’ behalf -- it only gives Laurent an extra opportunity to garner sympathy from the outside world. Although the guards, Pallas included, seems nice but uninclined to ever betray their king.

“They talk,” Laurent says. “What’s bothering you?”

He doesn’t actually expect Damianos to answer; he asks primarily so that the man will think Laurent has some kind of interest in his general contentedness. “I shouldn’t say,” Damianos says. And then he goes on to do exactly that: “I think the prejudices against bastardry aren’t doing Kastor any favours. There was a small uprising the other day that he was injured in.”

“Hmm.” Laurent looks at Damianos. His brow is furrowed. He clearly has a lot of love for his brother. Laurent briefly considers coming up with a way that he could have Kastor killed before Damianos, to make his revenge even sweeter. “A simple solution would be to marry me to him. Or you could kill me.”

“No,” Damianos says. “I’m not going to make you marry anyone you don’t want to.”

“Would you let me marry someone I did want to?”

Damianos looks at him. “Probably not.”

“That’s perhaps for the best,” Laurent replies carefully. “After all, the only person I really interact with is you. I don’t think your kyroi would approve of that union.”

Damianos smiles. “They would not.”

There is a long moment of silence. “Guion,” Laurent says, finally, “and Audin would be your brother’s best bets for getting the council on his side. They both hated me. Herode will be more difficult, but you could win him over by getting his eldest son on side, Mathieu. Also Kastor should appeal to the common folk -- they are less repulsed by bastardry.”

Damianos is looking at him. “You know I can’t take your advice in this.”

It’s actually fairly good advice, but Laurent lends him a nod.

“What are you planning, Laurent?” Damianos asks. “I can see the activity going on behind your eyes.”

“I am planning how to convince you to let me come outside more. It’s less lonely than my cell.”

“Did you ever…”

“What?”

Damianos winces. “I feel as if I am complaining about nothing,” he says. “I’ve had a very good life mostly. I wondered if you found it hard, the transition from prince to king?”

“No,” Laurent replies, honestly. “I found it easier. There were more duties, but also more freedom. My council rarely listened to me when I was a prince.”

“People who knew me as a baby won’t look me in the eye anymore,” Damianos says. “I know that a certain amount of distance is to be expected but… it sometimes feels like you’re the only one who talks to me like a person anymore. It’s been months since someone has actually argued with me.”

“You poor thing,” Laurent drawls.

“I know,” Damianos says. “It’s childish. I suppose I just miss having people near my level.”

“That wasn’t a problem for me,” Laurent replies. “I’ve been alone since I was fourteen.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t murdered your uncle,” Damianos murmurs, a comment not meant to be heard.

Laurent turns away. “You don’t know anything about that.” It’s hard to play this friendly role with Damianos when he keeps saying stupid things.

“I’m not trying to fight you,” Damianos says. “I just don’t think there’s a reason out there that could convince me that killing my own family was the right choice.”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“You stabbed him at the dinner table, unprovoked, in front of plenty of witnesses.”

This is it, then. This is the reason that no matter how much time Laurent spends with him, Damianos doesn’t seem to want him. The fact of Laurent betraying his family is so horrific to Damianos that he cannot see past it. If Laurent wants this plan to work, he needs to convince Damianos to come to terms with what Laurent did. The best way to do that is with the truth. Or at least, part of it.

“My uncle used to poison me,” Laurent states, sharply.

“Poison you,” Damianos repeats. Laurent can’t tell if he is skeptical or horrified.

“Not enough to kill me,” he explains. “But enough to make me too ill to go to important meetings he didn’t want me to attend. I got a reputation -- some people whispered that I was sickly, others that I was a shirker. When I realised what was happening, he admitted it to me. He told me I should be grateful that he was showing me how easy I was to poison. He said, _this wouldn’t happen if your men were loyal and you knew how to run a kingdom properly._ It was my fault.”

Now Damianos definitely looks horrified. “You were his family,” he says, as if that means anything.

“I thought that as well. I even thought that the fact he wasn’t killing me when he clearly had the means was an act of love.” Laurent smiles and he knows it isn’t a kind expression. His scar pulls. “I decided he was right in that I was unprotected, so I put together a prince’s guard of my own. I don’t remember how I thought he’d react, but he was furious.

“One of the men in his guard had offered to join mine; he had served Auguste and I think he was genuinely loyal to the line of succession. No one had really chosen me over my uncle before. He was in a rage when I -- visited him later, and he accused me of seducing the men in my guard. I denied it, of course. Then he grabbed me by the chin, and he said that I couldn’t trust men who only served me because they wanted to fuck me, and he said--” Laurent stops. He’s never said any of this aloud before, and it’s making his heart race. His hands are clenched into fists by his side.

“Laurent,” Damianos murmurs. “Breathe.”

Laurent does. He hadn’t noticed how quickly he was breathing before, and now that he has, he has to force himself to slow down. He copies the pattern of Damianos’ breathing.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Damianos is still speaking softly. “If it is too much for you. Clearly you have been through a lot that you did not deserve. I will try to reserve my opinions of you to only what I know directly from you. I shouldn’t have listened to the rumours.”

Laurent shakes his head. If he doesn’t finish the story now, he never will. It feels almost as if it’s spilling out of him. “He’s the one who cut my face. Then he convinced me that he’d done it out of love for me, and I was so stupid that I believed him. I stayed silent when people asked what had happened and they quickly decided that meant I had done it to myself. I’m sure my uncle encouraged the rumour. He was a lot kinder to me for a time after that, to make sure that I wouldn’t tell the truth of my disfigurement. But not long later he,” found a new boy, “ _lost interest_ in faking niceness and the next time I tasted poison in my food, my mind went blank and when I’d gotten control of myself again, I had stabbed him.” 

Laurent can still remember the way that his uncle’s blood had sprayed across his face when he’d plunged the dinner knife into the man’s throat. He remembers the shocked expressions on the courtier’s faces. To them it had been a sudden action from someone slowly going mad; to Laurent it had felt like a long time coming.

“I’m sorry,” Damianos says. He sounds so painfully sincere. “That that happened to you. And I am so sorry that there was noone to tell you then that you didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

Laurent breathes out, shakily.

-

There’s a woman at dinner the next week who Laurent recognises.

Simena is dark skinned and dark haired, a nondescript looking woman who is perhaps of Akielon or Patran descent. She is the kind of person that people look past. That is why she is perfect to act as a spy and assassin for Torgeir. If she is here, avoiding the bustling main table and casually sitting towards the back, then she is here on business of Patras.

Torgeir will not like that Damianos now essentially has a two-kingdom empire of his own. Laurent keeps his eyes on the woman, discreetly. 

He watches her figure out the servers, and then she winds her way around the room, ducks innocuously behind Lykaios -- the slave girl serving Damianos -- and when Lykaois is distracted, Simena drops something into her wine pitcher. The pitcher meant only for the King’s cup. Right before she has a chance to disappear completely, Simena looks directly at Laurent, and winks.

Laurent turns his gaze back to Damianos, who is already watching him. 

“You should try that dish,” Damianos says, gesturing to a plate. “It’s what the gods are described as eating in the book you were reading yesterday.”

“It looks wonderful,” Laurent replies faintly.

Damianos signals for his cup to be refilled. Laurent can let this happen -- he can let Damianos drink it and die. The poisoned wine splashes into the cup, and Damianos moves to take it.

Before he has even thought, Laurent is reaching out to grab his arm and stop him. Damianos looks at him, questioningly. “What’s wrong?” Damianos asks.

Laurent smiles, and he adjusts his pose to allow himself to lean into Damen, intimately. “Don’t drink the wine,” Laurent says, softly. He whispers it like a lover. “There’s something in it.”

There’s a long pause where he can see Damianos struggle to stop himself from looking around. He leans in further, so close to Laurent that they could almost be kissing. “Did you do it,” Damianos says quietly. “And have a change of heart?”

He doesn’t sound upset at the thought. 

“I saw a familiar face,” Laurent replies. “It seems Patras is not in support of your new empire.” Or possibly Torveld is acting out on behalf of Laurent’s honour. Perhaps Laurent shouldn’t have been so encouraging during the Patran diplomatic visit.

“Patras,” Damianos repeats, thoughtfully. He leans back and gestures for one of his guards. “Alexios, please see if the woman in brown down by the entrance would like to share a glass of wine with me.” The guard trudges away.

“You knew who she was,” Laurent says.

“I saw you watching her,” Damianos replies. Then he smiles, with a kind of sweetness that felt almost embarrassing to see unleashed in public. “Thank you for telling me, Laurent,” he says. “I mean that.”

-  
The next morning there are no guards outside of Laurent’s room. The daily slave arrives with a fresh bundle of clothes that he hands to Laurent, and then he drops to his knees. “Damianos-Exalted has requested your attendance at breakfast, if it pleases you.”

There is no guard. Laurent could just leave. He could have the slave show him the servant corridors and find the best way out and he could go. He didn’t even notice when his guard was dismissed, he was so preoccupied during the night with questioning why exactly he had stopped Damianos from drinking the poisoned wine. Laurent supposes the man’s death will only truly feel satisfying if it comes from Laurent’s own doing.

“I will be there once I have dressed,” Laurent says. He waves away the slave when the boy rises to help him. He can lace his own pants. Usually Damianos only eats with him in the evenings, which Laurent assumed is down to the fact that the man takes breakfast alone. He can only think that this invitation is a sign that Damianos wishes to spend more time with him.

Damianos smiles when he sees Laurent arrive. “Come sit,” he says, and Laurent does.

It’s a private dining room, that they have had dinner in once or twice when Damianos has noone to host. It looks different in the morning -- there are flowers on the table and the light streaming in from the high windows makes the room look especially inviting. They are the only two sitting at the table. Damianos’ guards are outside the door, but they are alone other than that.

“How did you sleep?” Damianos asks.

“Very well,” Laurent lies. “And you? I trust you avoided any additional assassination attempts after I retired.”

Damianos laughs. “Of course. I wouldn’t want them to steal that honour from you.”

Apparently they are at the level of being able to joke about it. Laurent smiles. “How thoughtful.”

Laurent takes a bite of his bread. There’s a lot of food on the table, more than they could possibly eat. There’s also a knife next to his plate. It looks sharp enough to kill. He purposely doesn’t look at it.

Damianos is smiling and telling Laurent something about some smaller palace and his mother. He’s not really listening to the story, distracted by the thought of the knife. Would he have a chance of stabbing Damianos if he caught him off guard? He imagines what it would feel like, thrusting the knife into Damianos’ neck, like Laurent did to his uncle so many years ago. Damianos knows this happened -- why would he leave a knife there like that? Unless this is a test.

“--it’s not as nice there, but the weather is wonderful today so I thought maybe you’d like to go?” Damianos is looking at Laurent expectantly.

Laurent blinks. “I apologise,” he says, finally. “I was distracted. What was that?”

“Would you like to go for a ride today?” Damianos asks.

All thoughts of knives leave Laurent’s mind. “A ride,” Laurent repeats.

Damianos is still smiling. “Your horse has been causing quite a fuss in my stables. It seems she won’t let anyone but you ride her. There’s a lake nearby that--”

“Yes,” Laurent says. Just the idea of-- he has missed the world so much, he has missed his horse almost unbearably. “Now?” Laurent asks, and he is already standing up.

Damianos laughs, a joyful sound, at Laurent’s enthusiasm. “Now is fine,” he says.

-

Being reunited with Adelina -- a beautiful mare who was trained by Auguste himself before he gifted it to Laurent -- is nothing short of wonderful. He’s in the highest spirits he has been for a long time, when he steps into the stables and she very clearly recognises him.

It doesn’t matter if Damianos sees this side of him, he decides, and so he doesn’t resist the impulse to pat down her neck lovingly and make sure she looks well looked after. “Have they been nice to you?” he asks her, in soft Veretian.

She seems to be in good condition. By the time Laurent is satisfied, he looks back to Damianos and his ever-present smile. 

“She acts lovely now,” Damianos says, “but she has been a terror.”

“I appreciate you keeping her in good health,” Laurent says.

“My stable boys tell me she’s been insisting on only the best treatment, so I fear we had no choice otherwise.”

He laughs. Laurent had assumed that Damianos would kill her or sell her after the war, but no -- here she is, being treated kindly in the stables while Laurent has been locked in a room of his own. 

They saddle the horses and set out on a route of Damianos’ choice, the guards trailing in the distance. 

“So,” Damianos says, as they ride. “You like horses.”

“They are so much easier to like than people,” Laurent replies. “I’ve loved riding since I was a child. My mother and Auguste used to take turns teaching me.” It’s among his favourite memories. His mother loved the horses, and despite having been ill for most of Laurent’s childhood, when she was outside teaching him to ride was the happiest she ever looked.

“Someone from the palace taught me,” Damianos says. “I remember crying the first time the horse threw me and the trainer insisted I get back on right away.”

“Pick a spot in the distance,” Laurent says. “I want to race you.”

“My horse is very fast,” Damianos warns him.

“So am I,” Laurent replies, and then he points to a tree in the distance and kicks off.

Laurent wins -- which isn’t surprising -- but the joy he feels turning back to tease Damianos for it is. He’s having fun, he realises. It’s been so long since he has laughed with anyone that the feeling is almost foreign to him.

“You weren’t kidding,” Damianos says.

“Did you let me win?” Laurent asks. “You can say it, if it helps your bruised pride.”

“Yes, but neither of us would believe it.” His curls are falling into his eyes haphazardly, and he keeps trying to shake his head to dislodge them.

“You are unkempt,” Laurent tells him.

“You’re the one riding in an undershirt.”

“You stole my jackets! And besides that, you’re wearing a dress.”

“My chiton is perfectly respectable. And much easier to take off than any of your laced monstrosities.” Damianos is dismounting his horse, and so Laurent follows suit. The guards still haven’t caught up.

“It is shorter than the dresses that the whores wear in their brothels,” Laurent says, even though he doesn’t actually know if that’s true. He gestures at the bare parts of Damianos’ muscular thighs.

“Do you go to brothels often, to know their clothing so intimately?”

“Perhaps I do,” Laurent replies. “And we all laugh about how silly your men look in their tiny, inappropriate skirts.”

“In return we can all laugh at you paying whores to gossip.”

“Look at me,” Laurent replies. “As if I’d need to pay.”

Damianos’ eyes look Laurent up and down. “I’m looking,” he says.

He appears nice like this, out among the trees with windswept hair and his dimples prominent. He is looking at Laurent with a kind of admiration that is unusually appealing. Laurent takes a step closer to him, of his own accord.

This is the perfect moment for Laurent to kiss him. 

He knows the general mechanics, lips to lips, and he thinks Damianos will lead, but it is a matter of initiating the gesture that throws him. Laurent’s heart is fast in his chest now that he has had the thought. He is not an expert in seduction; Damianos seems to like him but what if it is too soon? What if he rejects Laurent?

There must be a safer way to do it. They are already standing so close. Laurent tilts his head up towards Damianos. He lets his gaze fall clearly upon the man’s lips. Damianos takes the cue. 

He is gentle. He cups Laurent’s face in both of his large hands and plants a soft, quick peck upon Laurent’s mouth. Laurent can feel himself leaning forward, and at that, Damianos goes back in for a longer kiss. He parts Laurent’s lips with his tongue, and kisses Laurent in a way that feels almost reverent. Every movement, every gesture, is made with a thought out kind of softness that is impossible to defend against. 

Laurent thinks, _what should I do with my hands?_ And realises that he is already clutching the fabric at Damianos’ waist. He has closed his own eyes unthinkingly. He is kissing back automatically. It is as if his body knows what to do -- what it wants -- without him having to actively tell it. In this moment he does not feel like a dethroned king standing with his enemy, but like a young man filled with-- with something monumental.

Damianos pulls back. He is looking at Laurent’s mouth. “Do you poison your lips as well as your blade?” His voice is deep, rough.

“Do that again,” Laurent finds himself saying, “just to make sure.”

This time he knows what to expect, and he has a better idea of how to participate. He loops his arms around Damianos’ neck and pulls him closer. Their bodies are brushing together. Their eyes are closed, and if anyone were to see them then they would assume they were just two young lovers. The idea is so simple. Laurent’s heart beats with a kind of longing that he does not want to examine.

After a long luxurious time of this, Damianos pulls away again. Laurent’s hands are trembling. He is breathing oddly. 

Damianos takes this in. “Was that okay?” he asks.

Laurent feels as if his thoughts are moving too fast for him to catch any. He takes a step back. He is so stupid, so fucking childish to be affected by a kiss like this. He is not some innocent virgin; his hands should not be shaking. 

He should not _want_ to kiss Damianos again.

Laurent takes another step back. “I need to think,” he says.

“Of course,” Damianos is understanding. He looks concerned but eager. He is beautiful. He is a monster.

-

The door to his room isn’t even locked anymore. Pallas is back outside his door to guard, but Laurent is told that he is free to come and go as he pleases. He paces his room. He skips dinner. He can’t stop thinking about it, that kiss. The way that Damen’s mouth claimed and yielded to him. He was so gentle. Laurent wants to close his eyes and replay the moment over and over. 

Laurent scowls at that thought and kicks over his little side table. A candelabra clatters loudly to the floor, alongside some books. Laurent kicks it again. What is he doing getting caught up in his own plan like this? This is the man who murdered Auguste, Laurent reminds himself -- but the thought is distant. 

Laurent has always known that his greatest weakness is his heart. He had loved Auguste, he had loved his uncle, and all that he had received from that love was pain. He cannot care for Damianos. He can’t let himself slip, he can’t forget the plan. Laurent takes a deep breath. 

He has to finish this. If he lets it go on any longer than his resolve will weaken. Laurent washes his face and forces his breathing to steady. He forces himself to think of Auguste, and how it had felt when he had died. Laurent’s hands are calloused from hours of sword training with a single target in mind. His face is scarred, and he has no family or kingdom anymore, but he can have this. He can have revenge.

He leaves the room. 

“It is late,” Pallas says, but he doesn’t try to stop Laurent, just falls into line behind him. Laurent knows Pallas is fucking Lazar. Laurent had considered sabotaging their relationship as revenge against Lazar for betraying him, but he thinks Lazar is too promiscuous to be greatly affected by such a thing.

“He won’t mind,” Laurent replies. 

They get outside Damianos’ rooms, where there are two more guards, and Pallas knocks and calls out that Laurent is there to see him. He is granted entry.

Damianos is in his bedchambers, a series of papers laid out on the white sheets before him that he seems to be ignoring in favour of an apple. He is cutting it apart with a knife, apparently too cultured to just bite into it. 

“Laurent,” Damen says quietly. “Are you well?”

He is somehow softer like this, sitting upon his bed and lit by flickering candles. Damen sets the knife and apple upon his night table, and moves as if to rise.

“You don’t need to get up for me,” Laurent replies, stepping towards him. “I only wanted to…”

He looks down at the papers. He is a dedicated King to do so much of the work himself and so late at night.

“You wanted?”

Laurent collects the papers into a pile and sets it aside. Damen does not stop him. He sits on the bed. “I know that there is a lot between us,” Laurent says carefully, “but I find it all dulls in comparison to my desire to,” Laurent looks up at him, through his eyelashes, “be with you.”

He thinks Damen will kiss him at that and they can finally get this all out of the way. Instead he simply stares at Laurent for a long moment, eyes full of emotion, and then he reaches out and takes Laurent’s hand in his.

“You are so much more than I could ever have imagined,” Damen says. He is so sincere. “Laurent, I--” 

Laurent knows by the tone of his voice that he is going to say something important, something that Laurent can’t bear to hear, and so this time he is the one to initiate the kiss. He leans forward on his knees, bracing his hands on Damen’s shoulders and kisses him. Damen yields.

They kiss torturously, wonderfully, slowly. Damen pulls Laurent into his lap, untucks his gauzy white shirt and runs his fingers up the bare skin of Laurent’s back. It feels different to how he has ever been touched before; as if he is worth something.

If there is a plan, Laurent can’t think of it. He forgets himself in the weight of Damen’s gaze. He lets himself be rolled onto the bed sheets, with Damen above him. Damen kisses his lips, his face, his neck, and keeps going down and down. Laurent’s eyelashes flutter.

It is a series of contradictions. Damen is so strong but so soft. Laurent’s heart pounds but he feels safe. It is too much, not enough. This is something he was meant to endure. Yet he does not think like that when Damen is touching him so gently. 

He finishes undressing Laurent as if he is slowly revealing a gift to himself. He looks up at Laurent, eyes brimming with emotion, and says, “You are worth more than I could ever deserve.”

“I don’t care,” Laurent says, even though he knows that he is the one who doesn’t deserve this kind of sweetness. “Have me anyway.”

-

Afterwards, Damianos keeps kissing him. He is smiling, uncomplicated. He won't even give Laurent a chance to get up and clean himself, he is so busy with running his hands down Laurent’s chest and planting kisses on his face. You’ve gotten what you wanted, Laurent thinks dazedly, go to sleep.

“Laurent,” Damen says, sounding so sweetly happy. “Laurent.” He keeps touching Laurent’s hair.

“That’s my name,” Laurent agrees.

He laughs, and then he kisses Laurent’s face again, right upon his scar. “You are so much more than anyone I have ever met.”

“Stop,” Laurent whispers. It sounds like a plea. It feels like a plea. His heart can’t take much more of this -- he already feels as if he is overbrimming with something.

“You are,” Damen says. “I don’t -- I’ve never felt--”

Laurent kisses him, quickly. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want you to be happy,” Damen says, suddenly, passionately. “You have been in my dreams, and now you are in my bed, and I can only think of what I can do to bring you the greatest joy.” 

_You could stop talking,_ Laurent thinks. _Please._

“I want you to know that I mean it,” Damen continues. “I’d like it if you stayed here, with me, and we could rule Akielos together in the day and make love in the evenings, and I would trust you with my heart and my life.”

Laurent opens his mouth, but the words aren’t coming to them. He thinks surely he is hearing this wrong. Damen has no reason to feel so seriously about Laurent, when he knows that he is damaged and terrible. 

“Or,” Damen continues, carefully. “If it is too much for you to stay here with me, then I will help you go elsewhere. Isthima is beautiful, and I have a lot of property there. Or we could talk with Patras or Vask, if you don’t want to be in Akielos.”

“You want me to stay with you,” Laurent says, “but you’ll let me leave?”

“I want you to be happy,” Damen says.

“Even at cost to yourself?”

“Yes,” Damen does not hesitate.

Laurent feels dizzy. He has never -- no one has ever… “Kiss me again,” Laurent says.

Damen smiles. “Would that make you happy?”

“Yes,” Laurent says, honest.

Damen does eventually sleep, after the second time that they have sex. Laurent waits until his breathing is even before he slips out of bed and finds a basin of water and a cloth to wash off with. The candles have burnt out, but Laurent’s eyes have adjusted to the dark. 

When he is clean, he slides back under the sheets. In his slumber, Damen still seems to sense him, and he puts an arm around Laurent’s waist, clingy.

Laurent can’t sleep. There is too much happening in his brain. Laurent knows himself well enough to admit that he was touched by Damen’s promises. He knows that Damen means them, but also that Laurent’s heart is now weak enough that if he doesn’t kill Damianos tonight -- he never will. He is already imagining what it could be like by Damen’s side. He won’t be a king, no, but he never truly intended on being a king for long anyway. He won’t be a king, but he will be loved. They can rule together. They can find happiness in each other.

Or he can leave. Damen will let him go. To Patras or, perhaps Kempt? Laurent’s grandmother is still alive, she had offered to foster him when his father had died. 

What would Auguste say, if Laurent gave up on his revenge like this? Perhaps, he would be reassuring. He wouldn’t have wanted Laurent to go on his original suicide mission to duel Damianos in the first place. He would want Laurent to be happy and safe, and cared for. He was like Damianos in that respect.

But can Laurent forgive himself? Can he live happily knowing that it is because of the goodwill of his brother’s killer? Laurent looks to the side, to the night table where Damen has left his half eaten apple and the knife he had been using to cut it with. The blade shines in the dull moonlight that comes in through the window. 

Laurent is stuck with a choice. He can either reach out and take the knife -- and with it, his revenge -- or he can reach for Damen and let them hold each other in their arms and try to build a better future together. Laurent looks at Damianos and makes his decision.


End file.
